


Clothes

by l_am_adlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adlock, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 17:05:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7692565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_am_adlocked/pseuds/l_am_adlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes to 221B to find Sherlock and discuss about the new Moriarty Case. He should have known that things would turn out too differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothes

John knocks on the door to 221B, dread filling his body at the thought of another threat to their lives—and at the time he and Mary are having their daughter! He waits for the door to open but his knocking doesn't seem to have been heard. Sighing, he grabs the key Sherlock had given him and walks into his old flat. It still is odd for him to think of 221B as Sherlock's flat instead of his own home. He shakes his head.

"Mrs Hudson?" he asks in the dark corridor of 221B. No one answers. He shakes his head. He should have asked if Sherlock was in here—or if  _anyone_ was in here.

He sighs, going up the stairs to wait for Sherlock there, instead. It would be a nice change for Sherlock to come into his own home to find John sitting there. John chuckles at the thought of surprise that would be etched on Sherlock's face.

Before he sits down on his own chair, however, he hears the sound of water coming through the bathroom. Tilting his head a bit, he sees the door cracked slightly open with the light open.

He asks, "Sherlock?" 

No reply. A cold shiver runs through John's spine. The thought of Sherlock using drugs again enters his mind. He shakes his head from his thoughts.

Walking towards the kitchen, he stands by the door and knocks slightly. "Sherlock, answer me!"

Nothing. A thought much worse than Sherlock using drugs enters his head—a dead Sherlock.

Feeling that Sherlock might have had finally gone through an overdose, he barges in, the door slamming on the wall behind it. He breathes heavily at the thought of the corpse of his best friend in the bathroom.

Guess he should have known.

There, with eyes fixed on a book, lying down in a relaxed form, a smile growing wider by the second, is Irene Adler. Her eyes look up at him and she smiles softly, a small smirk etching on the corner of her lips.

"John," she addresses him casually.

John blinks once. twice. thrice... and still Irene Adler is there in the fucking bathtub, feeling so relaxed and comfortable, as if she had always been there. "What—? Who—? W—? What are you doing here?" he asks, stuttering, not really knowing what to say.

"I was passing by," she replies conversationally, putting the book down and looking at John as if she isn't surprised at his presence.

"Pass—? _Passing by_?" he asks.

"That's what I said." Irene smiles, starting to take the pins from her hair one by one to let it fall down her shoulders.

"How—? What—?" John keeps his eyes on her face since she is very exposed right now. "How the _hell_ are you alive?" he asks, before Irene opens her mouth, he cuts her off. "No. Don't answer that." It's because he already knows. That prick is going to get the thrashing of a lifetime. John grits his teeth in anger. 

"I know this is upsetting—"

"I am not upset."

"Yes you are."

"You're fucking alive."

"Language, John."

"Don't you talk about my fucking language."

"John, dear, you should get that temper checked. It's not healthy."

"I am not the reason why my temper goes off its rockets all the time."

"Sherlock keeps annoying you, doesn't he?"

"No. Stop it. You shouldn't be so casual like this!"

"Then how do you want me to talk to you?"

"I don't know! I don't bloody know!"

"Then I shall continue to talk like this."

Sighing, he leans by the door, looking everywhere except at the Woman. "What are you doing here?" he asks calmly. She opens her mouth again. "And don't say anything about passing by," he adds firmly.

"Where's the fun in that?" she asks. John gives her a murderous look before she smirks. "I'm just paying Sherlock a visit." Irene shrugs, starting to soap herself. "I thought it might be fun."

"Fun?"

"With the national terror and all."

"And you think that's fun?"

"Isn't it?"

"Hundreds, probably thousands, had died in Moriarty's hands and you think that's fun?"

"Certainly isn't—what would Sherlock say?—boring."

"Of course _you'd_ think it's fun. You work for _him_ , don't you?"

A beat. "Not anymore."

"Ha! And you think I'd believe that? Just like that?"

She smirks at him. "I don't need you to trust me, John."

"Then what do you need?"

"I need a place to stay."

"And you think this place is the _perfect_ place to stay now, is it?"

"Of course."

"How long have you been here?" he asks.

"John, dear, there's hardly any need for an interrog—"

"Answer the question."

"Aren't you a demanding soldier?"

John grits his teeth. "Answer. the. question."

He waits a few minutes before she finally answers. "Since last night."

"Right... Right..." John nods to himself. "Would you know where that annoying dick would be?" he asks.

"His dick is far from being annoying."

"Oh, Jesus. Jesus. I don't want to know anything about that." John grimaces from Irene's words. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because if you've been here since last night, you'd know where he is by now."

"Interesting." Irene nods, going back to her book.

"I asked you a question."

"And I didn't answer..." She gives John one more look before shrugging. "As for your question, I don't know. I had been here since this morning after waking—"

"You didn't see him?"

"He was asleep when I—"

He didn't bother hearing the rest of her sentence. John quickly turns around and walks out of the bathroom, slamming the door closed in the process before storming into Sherlock's room.

"SHERLOCK?!" he yells, hoping he would wake the detective from his slumber.

Only he wasn't there.

John tries to act as Sherlock and sees the neat room, some of Irene's clothes neatly placed in one side of the room. John notices that he hasn't seen Sherlock's coat and scarf anywhere. Sherlock went out. John closes his eyes at his stupidity. He should have called Sherlock if he was here instead of just barging in. Then again, Mycroft did say that Sherlock was temporarily being imprisoned in 221B. Why would Mycroft let Sherlock wander around London under the threat of this new Moriarty?

He turns again and stands by the door, not wanting to get inside the bathroom and see Irene Adler being too  _comfortable_ in Sherlock's bathroom.

"He isn't here," he tells her.

"Then he isn't here," she replies through the door.

"You didn't kill him, did you?" he asks.

"Why would I kill him? I told you. I needed a place to stay."

"Didn't send him to the new Moriarty?" he asks.

"I don't work for anyone."

"I doubt that."

"Doubt all you want, Doctor Watson. The stress of doubt would not do well for my skin."

John growls and walks back to the living room, breathing heavily to grab his composure once more. He looks around, trying to calm himself from his growing anger. Of course, Sherlock would have known that she is alive. What did Mycroft say? That Sherlock was the only person who could have fooled him?

' _That bastard is going to die in my hands._ ' Moriarty forgotten from his head.

He paces a few more moments around the flat. When he has finally slightly figured out how Sherlock could have saved Irene all those years ago, he flops down on his old armchair and thinks about it again. That old case with Sherlock talking about the gardener and the earring. Sherlock said it was in easy case and yet he was gone for a few days. Then again, prior to that, John himself was out in a meeting in Wales for a week. Sherlock must have been gone by then as well.

John is definitely going to kill Sherlock.

Speaking of the devil, he hears a cab pull up near 221B. He walks towards the window, carefully trying to hide behind the curtains and looks through the window. He sees Sherlock come out of the cab, bringing along with him lots of bags from shops and from the grocery. Sherlock had gone grocery shopping?

Seeing Sherlock walk towards the door to 221B, he walks towards the sofa and sits by, waiting patiently as he hears Sherlock climbs up the stairs. Sherlock opens the door to the kitchen. As he places the bags on the table, he hears Sherlock mutter, "That intolerable woman making me shop," and then he hears him say, "Annoying me by making me worry about choosing."

John closes his eyes, keeping his anger inside. So... Sherlock had gone to buy Irene bloody Adler some fucking clothes? What the fuck is going on around him? The anger subsides slightly and brings forth some confusion. He wonders if Irene Adler had wanted this whole scenario to happen. If she can manipulate people, she can manipulate situations, too. 

She would have heard him knocking below earlier. She would have heard him climb up the stairs and walk up to that particular squeaky step. She would have closed the door to the bathroom door but she didn't. She wanted him to find and catch her. That bloody woman. She is playing him all over again like before. He grits his teeth in annoyance. She and Sherlock are so fucking  _perfect_ for each other. Both annoying him. Both lessening his life on earth.

He hears a door open—he suspects that it would be the bathroom door because he hears Sherlock mutter, "I'm back." He doesn't hear what Irene's reply was but he hears Sherlock reply, "Of course, I did," snappily. Another reply from Irene Adler that he can't hear.

John hears the door close again before Sherlock finally walks in the living room, removing his coat.

Sherlock finally sees him. His eyes widen at the sight of John. John doesn't miss the quick turn of Sherlock's eyes to Irene's direction. Sherlock looks at John from his head to his toe. He is observing him again. ' _This bastard has the nerve to deduce me._ '

"Oh, hello, John," Sherlock greets him, placing his coat and scarf on the hook behind the door to the living room. Without glancing back, Sherlock walks back to the kitchen.

Annoyed, John stands up from the sofa and walks into the kitchen.

"What brought you here, John?" Sherlock asks, carefully placing some of the bags which were on the table to the chairs to prevent them from falling. He notices that there is a lack of scientific equipment on Sherlock's table and is instead replaced by mountains of folders and documents that all have the label 'Classified.'

"I came to talk to you."

"About what?"

"About—? About Moriarty, you bloody prick."

Sherlock eyes him at his choice of words. "We might as well do," Sherlock replies, gesturing to the amounts of folders and documents on the table.

"What are those?" he asks.

"Records. I'm currently working on the source of the small appearance of Moriarty's face. Noticed that it was merely a photograph of Moriarty, edited. Nor was his voice used. This is another person. This is another dragon."

"Dragon?" John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Something Mycroft said."

Sherlock sits on one of the chairs and John was about to sit on another before he hears another swishing of water from the bathroom. He looks at it again, momentarily confused on why there is movement in it before remembering Irene bloody Adler.

"What were you doing?" John asks him, finding his composure.

"Doing what?" Sherlock asks, eyes locked on the records.

"That's what I was asking, wasn't I? Those, Sherlock." John gestures at the large amount of bags in the kitchen. "Where were you?"

"I was just running some errands."

"You never run errands."

"I live alone. I have to."

A pause.

"What kind of errands?'

"Does it matter?"

"Of course, it matters! Moriarty's face is going viral around the bloody country. And you just said that there is someone out there controlling this image to obtain fear from the whole population! A new threat, isn't it? The new Moriarty? And here you are, running errands?! Not only that, but we are all still in utter danger! And you just went out to do some errands which, by the way, you never do before? What if you were killed? What would we do by then?"

"Oh relax, John. That was no ordinary cab," Sherlock replies casually, leaning back on the chairs and looking at the many folders of cases on the table. "I was perfectly safe. Well, as safe as I possibly can be."

"Something to do with Mycroft, then?" John asks, trying hard to be as casual as this massive idiot.

"Unfortunately," Sherlock replies in distaste.

A pause.

"Sherlock, what the hell is Irene Adler doing here?" he asks.

"Irene Adler?" Sherlock asks.

"You know, Irene Adler, the Woman? The _Woman_  woman? The only one who beat you, you said? Made you a complete and utter idiot? The _dead_ woman?"

"There's a ghost in the flat?"

"You thank whoever it is out there that I was part of the military because I could have beaten you up right here, right now," John says, sighing, closing his eyes, completely and utterly annoyed. "Now, tell me, what is she doing here?"

"Made her appearance known to you, didn't she?" Sherlock asks, glaring at the closed bathroom door.

"You're not answering my question," John points out.

"Which would be?" Sherlock dare asks.

Annoyed, John explodes, "Which would be what the _fuck_ is Irene  _bloody_ Adler doing in this  _bleeding_ flat of yours?! Damn it, Sherlock. Don't stall!"

John wants to punch him when he dared eye him. "She's staying here for the meantime."

" _Why?_ "

"She said she needed a place to stay." Sherlock shrugs.

"Oh, so anyone could just come knocking on your door and tell you they needed a place to stay and you let them? Is that it now?" John asks in anger.

"She broke in through the window last night. That's hardly knocking on my door. Is it, John?" Sherlock asks nonchalantly, changing one page to another.

"Broke—? Sherlock, what the fuck? You just said she _broke in_ through your bleeding _window_! Didn't Mycroft say that he is placing maximum security in our places?"

"Yes."

"And she just managed to get through those security?" Sherlock shrugs in reply. "Fine. Don't answer. At least tell me _why_ you are letting her stay here."

"I told you: She needed a place to stay," Sherlock tells him firmly, giving him a brief glance.

"Never mind that she worked for Moriarty, huh?"

"Irene Adler is a good asset to finding the source of the Moriarty problem."

"Does she still work for him?" John asks.

"No."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because he would have wanted her dead after the phone incident," Sherlock replies with a casual voice. John is not fooled. He hears the hesitation in his voice and the slight clenching of Sherlock's jaw and fist.

Trying to go back to their topic, he then asks, "Speaking of dead... Where were we? Oh yes. How is she alive?" Sherlock opens his mouth but John beats him to it. "And why are you so calm about all of this? Isn't she supposed to be _dead_? Not alive? Six feet under? A fucking _corpse_?"

"John, I thought you told me that she was in a Witness Protection Scheme in America?" Sherlock asks, looking up from the folder and tilting his head at John.

"Oh, stop. That's bullshit, Sherlock, and you know it. You knew I lied to you about the Witness Protection Scheme the moment I mentioned it," John points out.

"Why mention it in the first place?"

"Because I was saving you the grief!"

"Why would I grieve?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because the first time she faked her death, you were mourning about her. Remember that?"

"Don't be absurd."

"I'm absurd?! Don't you—wait a minute. You are stalling again, you bastard. You're not answering my question again."

"You keep repeating your words, did you know that?"

"Just shut up _. Shut up_. Tell me why is she alive?"

"You tell me to shut up twice then demand me to answer a question? What do I do? Keep quiet or answer?"

John sighs, rubbing his face with his hand. "Answer the fucking question, Sherlock."

"What is the question again?"

"Why is she alive?"

"It is not wise to question the existence of another."

"Don't you dare bullshit me with your philosophical thoughts, Sherlock. _How_ is she alive?" John asks. Sherlock shrugs in answer, looking back at the documents. "It was you, wasn't it? Oh God! This whole thing all over again! Another faked death! A fake death which _you_ did! Is there anyone else alive that shouldn't be, hmm, Sherlock? Is there anyone else? Is Moriarty _really_ dead, Sherlock? Or were you buddies with him and faked his death, too?"

"John—"

"Been laughing about fooling the world, are you? What about Magnussen, then, huh? Did you really put a bullet in his brain? Or was it the same thing you did with Moriarty? Maybe it's a blank bullet? Maybe it's—"

" _Enough_ ," Sherlock stops him. John shuts up.

Both men are fuming, looking at each other with such intensity. Calculating pale heterochromic eyes glares back at furious dark blue eyes. John is not going to start apologising for what he had said. Sherlock would know that he wouldn't mean it and that he was bloody furious.

"You just know how to push my buttons," John quietly replies.

"As do you," Sherlock replies.

As the silence stretches on, their furious gazing is interrupted when they hear the door to the bathroom open and the woman in question enters the room dry and... without a towel. Trust her to be naked. Irene looks at the two men in front of her. John turns the other way and doesn't look at her because of anger and because he wouldn't look at this woman who uses her nudity as a weapon. Instead, he goes and starts to put the kettle on and make some tea. How British of him.

"I was wondering why you haven't gone inside," she tells Sherlock quietly.

"Got busy for a moment," Sherlock replies, standing up and grabbing his dressing gown which is placed on one of the chairs. He hands it to her and she takes it from him and wears it herself.

"There is a lot of tension in this room," she states quietly.

"All because of you, apparently," Sherlock replies, sitting back down where he came from.

"Do I always make such commotions?" she asks teasingly.

"You have no idea."

John observes the two of them. They did not change much around each other since three years ago. They still work together in a sort of dance. Their movements together are always gracefully parallel with one another. Wait... Did Irene Adler just  _smile_ as she wears Sherlock's dressing gown? Not a smirk. But a genuine secretive smile? No. No. He must have been seeing things.

Upon tying the dressing gown around herself, Irene eyes the bags in the kitchen, and walks over them. He sees Sherlock briefly glance at her before turning back at the folders before him.

"Are these it?" Irene asks Sherlock, looking inside some of the bags.

"Obviously," Sherlock mutters under his breath.

"These better fit perfectly, Mister Holmes," she warns him.

"And they would. _Of course_ , they would. I picked them all myself," Sherlock replies in annoyance.

"Do you really know which ones are needed? Are you entirely sure that they would fit?" she asks, raising a brow at Sherlock whose eyes are still stuck on the pages of the folder.

"I know your measurements. Of course, I am perfectly sure. Don't doubt my certainty, Miss Adler. It insults me," he tells her.

"I am not insulting you. I am merely making sure," she replies. "Measurements _do_ change over time, Mister Holmes."

"Obviously."

"My measurements are entirely different from the first time we met. I didn't tell you my new measurements. How are you certain?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I based your measurements from last night, obviously. Also..." Sherlock grabs something from his pocket and shows a phone. Irene raises her brow at this and grabs it from his hand. "It's not hard to get your phone from you nowadays. You're slipping."

"Probably because I was having too much fun relaxing in your bathroom. Should I remind you again that I waited for you?" she teases. "Did you get the measurements from the phone?"

"I did."

"Did you look at my naughty photographs, Mister Holmes?"

"No."

"Of course." Irene chuckles. "You didn't need to. All you had to do is _remember_."

"Sorry, what?" John suddenly talks. Both Sherlock and Irene who are, by now, staring at each other too much for his own good, looks at him, both frowning as if he had broken a moment - perhaps he did. "You only knew her measurements when you first met, how would you remember the new measurements unless—"

"Unless I was recently wearing nothing," Irene finishes for him. "John, dear, do you _really_ think that I would visit one Sherlock Holmes and would not be naked, at least, once?" she asks.

"I don't know why you keep doing so," Sherlock tells her.

"Just to grab attention from you, dear," Irene smirks.

"It doesn't work," Sherlock tells her, leaning back on the chair.

"You think so."

"No, I—'

"Oh, just shut up! Both of you!" John demands. The two both stop to look at him.

"We're all adults around here, aren't we, John?" Irene asks teasingly.

"I don't know what's going on here—" John starts.

"As usual," Sherlock interrupts.

John eyes him. "—but I don't want seeing too much of the flirting, are we clear?"

"Stop flirting?" Irene asks. "Where's the fun in that?"

"You really like seeking _fun_ now, don't you?" John asks.

"Of course, and I'm not promising anything."

John grumbles. "Whatever."

That ends the small conversation for him because Irene turns towards Sherlock once more, addressing him completely. Sherlock stares back at her. It is as if they are back in their own world and John can only watch through a screen. Looking at them, a stranger would think that this is a normal couple - a man working on the kitchen table while the woman talks to him casually. He knows better. This is a detective solving a national crisis and a dominatrix grabbing control of the room once more. He will never understand these two. Two very different and very similar people, looking as domestic as ever when they normally wouldn't be. Whatever 'normal' means to the both of them.

"What kind of clothes did you buy?" she asks him. "I'm afraid I wasn't too specific with my request."

"Demands, you mean?" Sherlock corrects.

Irene smirks. "Of course."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I bought everything and anything that would be appropriate and needed for your stay here. I bought only those that you would need. Most of them are clothes you wouldn't normally wear."

"How cautious."

"People still want your head on a platter."

"Obviously," she tells him. "You thought a lot about this," she comments, looking around the bags and bringing out some clothes to look at.

John wonders how much more domestic they could look like.

"Don't flatter yourself, Miss Adler," Sherlock tells her, looking at her.

Irene looks at him. "Are you implying that I just said that you had thought a lot about _me_?" she asks.

"No," Sherlock replies in an instant.

"Then I am not flattering myself now, am I?" she says nonchalantly. "How many clothes did you buy?" she asks him.

"Enough. If not, you could buy some yourself wearing the clothes I had already bought to hide your identity," he tells her. "Here." Sherlock grabs his wallet and takes out a card which John assumes belongs to Irene. "I didn't use it."

Both Irene and John look at him. "Why didn't you?" Irene asks.

"Consider it a gift," Sherlock replies sarcastically. "Using your card while I buy for them, it's not hard to link you from me."

"The card is under an alias."

"An alias you are using far too long."

Irene rolls her eyes. "Under my circumstances, it would be hard to change aliases." Sherlock hums in agreement. "You were buying women's clothing. That would have been suspicious enough."

"I chose the clothes. I ordered someone to buy them for me. I merely gave my instructions from the cab," Sherlock replies. Irene hums.

Irene continues to look at some of the clothes. John keeps quiet and finally serves tea, and some shockingly edible biscuits from Sherlock's cupboards. He watches as the two of the brilliant minds in the world settle themselves in the silence comfortably... almost as if they are a couple.

A few moments of silence later, with John's mind going haywire, Irene suddenly smirks devilishly at one of the bags. Pulling it from the bag, she looks at the clothing. John looks at it in horror.

"Sherlock, dear?"

Sherlock hums in reply, his eyes and focus stuck on the case before him.

"You said that you are the one who chose and picked these clothes, correct?" Sherlock hums in reply. "And you did not buy anything else that I would not need?" A hum. "And that you specifically sought out these clothes, yes?" Another hum. "Well, alright then."

Irene folds the lingerie and places it back to the bag where it came from, giving John a wink and a knowing look. John just wants to vomit at the implication of what just happened. Before he manages to pull Sherlock and make him go outside with him just to avoid them suddenly having their end away on the kitchen table and finally discuss about the Moriarty case, he sees it.

A few small bags with the logos of Burberry, Dolce & Gabbana, as well as... Please Mum.

He feels as if he could not breathe anymore. What does this thing mean? "Sh-Sherlock, tell me again, how long will she be staying here?" he asks.

"A long time," Irene replies.

"Like I said before, John, as long as she wants to."

"Why?" he asks. Sherlock and Irene do not bother to answer. Of course. A new Moriarty. "...How long exactly?" John asks.

Irene tilts her head. "Why do you ask?" 

"Just curious..."

Only then, does John try to look at Irene Adler's belly, swallowing nervously. Unfortunately, Sherlock's large dressing gown prevents him from finding out how long Irene is already pregnant. Sherlock and Irene share a look with one another.

"I told you he wouldn't notice it right away," Sherlock tells her.

"I thought it would be most noticeable," she replies in surprise.

"He was worried about the threat of the new Moriarty. _Of course_ , he wouldn't notice anything," Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes.

"And _he_ is here, standing in front of you,  _talking_ to the both of you," John cuts them off. "How long are you going to stay here again?"

"Why do you keep asking that?" Sherlock asks in frustration. "We already told you. _Until she needs to_."

"Which is until—?" John asks, looking at Irene. 

"How would we know, John?" Sherlock rolls his eyes. "They both stay here until they need to." That definitely confirms John's suspicion. They are having a child together. He sits down, his legs shaking from the shock of the news. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice since he continues, looking at Irene, "You have other connections other than I am. Why not find one of them and get a more suitable place than here? If it didn't occur to you, it is _dangerous_ here. Not just for you and me."

"...Knowing his father, there is a high possibility of attachment from the child," Irene says.

Fuck, Sherlock's going to be a fucking father... What the fuck is the world punishing him for? He doesn't know if he regrets coming here or not. He doesn't know whether he likes the knowledge of this news or the blissfulness of ignorance.

"Better here than anywhere else," Irene adds.

"His?" John asks after the silence.

"His," Irene says again firmly, nodding.

"Speaking of _his_ ," Sherlock starts, grabbing both their attention. "Where is he?"

"He's on his way here."

"How?"

"Being sent."

"What?!" Sherlock asks, standing up. "By whom?"

"Don't worry. He will be safe. I know a lot of people."

"Yes, and they're not exactly safe, are they?" Sherlock snaps. John's eyes widen at the snappy tone from Sherlock. He is rarely like this. "And you made him come here _alone_?"

"He is not safe with me."

"And to strangers, he is?"

"I gave him a tracking device. He knows how to send a distress signal. No one would have known it. He and I made it ourselves." Irene rolls her eyes. "To answer, he will arrive here a few hours later with Martha."

"Martha? Who's Martha?"

"Martha. Martha Hudson." 

"Why is _she_ involved?"

"She visited her sister, didn't she? Her niece owes me a favour. He will be safe with them," Irene reassures him. Sherlock visibly relaxes at that.

"Mrs Hudson's niece owes you a favour, how?" John asks.

"Not in the way you think, John..." She smirks. "I may have been the 'kind stranger' who helped with her personal problems," she tells them, smirking.

"Are you certain no harm will come to him?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes."

"Sorry, who is this _him_ you are talking about?" John asks.

"Nero."

"Who's Nero?" John asks.

Sherlock looks at him oddly. "Our son."

"Excuse me?"

"Why are you surprised? Who do you think had we been talking about this whole time?" Sherlock asks.

"What? So, you're not-?" John asks Irene. Both Irene and Sherlock look at him in question.

"Not what?" Irene asks.

"Pregnant?" he asks.

Irene laughs. "Is that how much change my measurements had had these past few years?" she asks teasingly.

"So, you're not-?"

"She isn't," Sherlock replies casually, looking down at the folders on the table again before sighing and leaning on the counter instead. He looks at Irene. "Is that why you insisted for Mrs Hudson to leave last night?" he asks.

"Yes."

"...Nero?" John interrupts once more. "How old?"

"Just turned three last November," Irene replies.

"...That means he was conceived in-?"

"2012, yes," Sherlock replies.

Sherlock's been a father for three fucking years? Sherlock is a father before him? ' _Why does the universe hate me?_ ' A three-year old son! Three years! And he never said anything!

Breathing to keep himself calm, John addresses Irene, "So when I thought you were dead-"

"A new life was actually being made," Irene says. Sherlock and John look at her. "Isn't that what happened?"

"The terms you used were not the kind I would have thought you _would_ use."

"So you meant to say that it would be more of my character if I said that when he thought I was dead, I was actually having  _dinner_ with you?" she asks.

"Or something along the lines of begging for mercy," John mumbles under his breath. Unfortunately, both Irene and Sherlock had heard him.

"Oh, someone _did_ beg for mercy," Sherlock replies. John raises his brow. "It just wasn't me."

Irene narrows her eyes at Sherlock before walking towards him and placing a finger on his cheek, then caressing it. "We both know I still had the upper hand."

"Get your hand off of me."

"It's not a hand."

"Take your finger off of me."

"We both know you enjoy this."

John watches in disbelief and slight confusion. "Nero, then, huh?"

They look at him with frowns once more. Irene seems to be slightly annoyed by him by now. Look at how the tables had turned. 

"Yes."

"Not Hamish, then?" John asks.

"Nero Hamish Wolfe," Sherlock replies. John nearly chokes at that. 

After a few moments of getting his composure, God knows he needs to get his blood pressure checked. "Not Adler or Holmes? Why Wolfe?"

"It's my alias when he was born. Nero Wolfe, son of Irene and Siger Wolfe," Irene replies.

"Siger?" John asks Sherlock. "Isn't that your dad's name?"

"I couldn't think of a better name." Sherlock shrugs.

"Jesus, I need a drink," John mutters under his breath.

"You just made tea, didn't you?" Sherlock asks.

"A _hard_ drink, Sherlock..."

"Why?"

"Sherlock, dear, he just found out that I am alive and that you managed to procreate _three years ago_ ," Irene tells him.

"I don't see how this is so surprising."

"To you, it might not be, but to others it might as well be," Irene replies, looking deep into Sherlock's eyes.

John rolls his eyes. "I'm gonna come back here some other time. I need some air."

"Yes, you do that," Sherlock replies with Irene placing a hand on the lapels of Sherlock's suit, as if inspecting it and removing some dirt from it.

"Oh God, let me get out of here first," he mumbles to himself.

"We're not animals, John," Irene says teasingly. "At least, not in front of an audience." She whispers into Sherlock's ear, "Want to take a bath, Mister Holmes? Your bathtub is awfully comfortable."

Unfortunately, John heard that and he quickly runs away from the place and out of 221B.

**Author's Note:**

> According to John's blog, his post about the Woman happened on twelfth of March 2012. We can safely say that the Karachi incident happened around the first few weeks of March (considering Mycroft's quick obtaining of news).
> 
> Eight months after March would be November. I don't know. For some reason, I think that Nero would be born eight months after instead of nine.
> 
> Sherlock came back from the dead in November 2014.  
> John and Mary got married around August 2015.  
> He killed Magnussen in December 2015.
> 
> We can say that this fic happened around before New Year's or after. Either way, Nero would be three at this time.


End file.
